


Cracked

by samegirl



Series: Why Not? [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 08:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samegirl/pseuds/samegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey briefly wonders if he has heatstroke, because how else can he explain what he’s thinking other than that he has completely lost his fucking mind?</p><p>Set as if Terry never walked in on them, and their relationship was allowed to progress.</p><p>Newly/Heavily revised</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cracked

Work Text:  


It's after three in the morning when Mickey gives up hope of getting any sleep. He’s kicked off his sheets and stripped to his boxers, but he can still feel sweat dripping down his spine. Fuck Chicago summers. Fuck the heat, and fuck the humidity, and fuck the crappy fan by the window that does fuck all. You’d think he’d be used to it by now, but he still feels like he’s being smothered by a fucking pillow.  


He’s sprawled on his stomach, head turned sharply to glare at the wall above his bed. He can still see the crack where he smashed Gallagher into the wall three years ago. Ian had been such a puny little shit back then; Mickey’s surprised he even left a mark.  


His old gym bag is stuffed under his mattress, half-full from an earlier attempt at packing, which he had quickly abandoned while berating himself for being a total idiot. He knows he could make it, though. His father’s out on a run, and his brothers are passed out on the couch, dead to the world and reeking of Natty Ice. Mandy’s probably out screwing some douchebag. Mickey could leave, and no one would stop him. And he knows exactly where he would go.  


He briefly wonders if he has heatstroke, because how else can he explain what he’s thinking other than that he has completely lost his fucking mind?  


Mickey always knew that Ian wanted to go to West Point. Half of their conversations were Ian talking about being an officer, and Mickey trying to get him to shut up long enough for Ian to blow him. Or for Mickey to get on his knees. His tough guy act really wasn’t fooling anyone, and Ian’s smirk made sure he knew it.  


Ian is too good for this place, too good for Mickey, and Mickey always knew that one day he would walk into the Kash and Grab, and Ian would no longer be grinning at him from behind the counter. It’s different in reality though, when West Point is no longer a dream, and Ian no longer lives just down the street. And one day, Mickey is sitting alone on an abandoned rooftop when realizes that he’s waiting for something that will never happen and someone who will never come.  
__________________________________________________________________________

 

It’s dark when Ian finally makes it to the roof.  


"What the fuck, Gallagher?" Mickey says mildly, not wanting to highlight that he was willing to wait almost an hour for Ian’s ass to show up.  


"Sorry," Ian replies, smiling.  


Ian’s holding a large manila envelope and keeps awkwardly tapping it against his knee. Mickey’s eyes zero in and stick. The envelope is slightly crumpled from Ian’s death grip and, combined with Ian’s I’m-about-to-explode-with-happiness expression, it can only be one thing. Mickey suddenly feels like his stomach is trying to wrap around his spine.  


"Is that it then?" Mickey says, flatly, "You got in?"  


"Yeah," Ian says, and it almost sounds like a question. Like he still can’t believe that he’s holding everything he’s ever wanted.  


Ian’s eyes are bright, full of excitement, and so wide that Mickey thinks they probably reflect the sky above them. He snorts and looks at his feet. Only Ian would literally have fucking stars in his eyes. Mickey crushes a clump of dirt under his shoe and knows exactly what would be reflected in his own.  


He pushes off the wall, bringing his thumb to his mouth and rubbing the corner of his bottom lip. He quickly lights a cigarette while looking anywhere else than Ian. Empty beer bottles, a couple folding chairs. Little things that mark the place as theirs. It may not be much, but it’s the most that Mickey’s had for the past three years, maybe ever, and it doesn’t work without Ian.  


Mickey's breath catches in his throat, and he feels frozen. It’s as if dense, jagged shards of ice are piercing him from the inside out, and he can't move or he will shatter. Hundreds of pieces spread out on the dirty concrete, weak, and broken, and dissolving. He takes one more pull and lets his cigarette drop from his fingers.  


"Congratulations."  


"I don't leave for several months," Ian says softly. He pauses, waiting for a response, but Mickey doesn't move, just lights another cigarette and takes a long drag.  


"And New York isn’t really that far if you think about it,” he rushes to continue. His words come more quickly as he tries to assure them both that everything they've spent years building, fighting for, isn't about to fall apart.  


"I'll have weekends off," he states firmly, "and it's only a few hours by plane, so I'll come visit as often as I can-"  


"Don't," Mickey interrupts. He finally looks up, his eyes meeting Ian’s in a tangled mess of fury and pain, love and resignation. "You've got a ticket out of this shit hole, Gallagher. Get the fuck out of here and don't look back."  


They see the corner where they always shared a blunt when Mickey’s dad was on a bender. The makeshift shooting range where they constantly tried to one-up each other, Ian repeatedly offering to give him private lessons before sneaking up behind him to grab his ass. There’s the wall that Mickey would shove Ian against as they both scrambled for their belt buckles. The place they could smile and laugh and touch.  


Mickey’s gaze is straight forward, firm, and voice low and steady as he continues, "There's nothing here worth looking back for."  


***  


Things go back to normal after that, but they don't talk about West Point again. If they hold each other tighter, their fingers pressing in a little harder, neither one mentions it. Mickey starts showing up at the Kash and Grab on his days off, pressing Ian roughly against the wall as he kisses him. Ian never comments on the new habit, just starts closing up earlier and earlier every evening and heading straight to the rooftop on his nights off. Mickey’s always waiting.  


This balance lasts through spring and into summer, until Ian is supposed to leave in ten days, and Mickey disappears. He stops meeting Ian after work and stops going to the rooftop. Mandy begins to call him a fucking hermit because he spends most of his time in his room.  


Mickey tells her to fuck off.  


He feels like there's something crawling under his skin, consuming him from the inside out. He hopes it will go away if he doesn’t see Gallagher, but that just seems to make it worse. Still, he’ll have to get used to Ian’s absence soon, so he may as well get a head start.  


As the day gets closer, though, the itch continues to build, and when Mickey starts pacing a hole into his bedroom carpet one night, something finally snaps. He grabs the lamp by his bed and throws it against the wall, relishing in the feeling of finally doing something. As he hears Mandy start to yell in the background, he turns quickly and rushes out of the house, leaving the door wide open behind him.

***

When Ian is set to leave in two days, Mickey shows up on his doorstep.  


Mickey lets out a relieved breath when Ian opens the door and not one his million siblings, and he’s not surprised by the slightly hostile look on Ian's face.  


"Hey, Mickey."  


Ian steps outside and shuts the door behind him. He stares at Mickey, his eyes silently daring him to break the silence, but Mickey keeps his mouth shut, his jaw so tight he can feel his teeth grinding together.  


"Where the hell have you been?" Ian finally caves, anger coming through in his voice.  


"I've been around,” Mickey mutters.  


"Oh really?" Ian asks in an unbelieving tone. "Well I haven't seen you."  


Mickey doesn't say anything. His skin feels like it's vibrating, refusing to be still even as he stands rooted to the ground.  


"Did you want something?" Ian asks dryly.  


"Yeah, man," Mickey says, trying to sound casual as he shifts his weight back and forth. “I just..." He breaks off, abruptly blowing out a breath and looking to the side again.  


The silence lingers for a few seconds before Ian snaps, “Jesus Christ, Mickey! I'm leaving in two days," Ian says, deadpan. "Do you even realize that? Fuck, do you even care?" He makes a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh, shaking his head slightly as his eyes drill into the boy in front of him, accusing and pleading at the same time.  


Mickey looks down, and that feeling starts to creep in again, a thrumming, simmering heat that he's starting to recognize as anger.  


"Three years," Ian goes on, oblivious to the rising tension. "We've been doing this, whatever the fuck this is, for three fucking years, and it means nothing to you?" He barely pauses before continuing. "You know what? Forget it. I'll be gone in a few days, and you'll never have to see me again. Have a nice life." Ian’s voice loses all bravado halfway through, and he's almost whispering by the time he goes to close door.  


As he watches the door begin to shut, Mickey finally lets the anger take over. It's not the irrational fury that overcomes him before he rushes headfirst into a brawl. It's sharp and translucent, and Mickey realizes that he's been angry for months. In fact, he's furious. He's furious at his father, at life, at Ian. But most of all, he's furious at finally having figured out what the hell he wants, what he needs, just to have it taken away. And with that realization, the words finally break free.  


"You're the one leaving, Gallagher."  


Ian freezes, standing motionless for several heartbeats before turning around to face Mickey, eyes wide. "What?"  


"You heard me," Mickey says roughly, looking Ian straight in the eye. "So don't tell me the last three years didn't mean shit when you're the one walking away now."  


They stare at each other, shoulders square and chins up, a kind of stand off. Ian's eyes are a mix of surprise, hurt, and guilt, full of realization. Mickey has never been this open, has never actually talked about his feelings or their relationship, and the fact that he just inadvertently declared his commitment to Ian suddenly hits them both.  


Ian takes a step forward. Mickey drops his gaze.  


"Mick..."  


Mickey exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut before roughly dropping his arm as if he can no longer bear its weight. "Fuck this," he mutters as he turns and begins to walk away.  


"Mick, wait!"  


He can hear Ian coming down the steps after him and just walks faster. He should have known it wouldn't be that easy.  


"Would you just stop?" Ian shouts, grabbing Mickey's elbow and swinging him around. Mickey inwardly curses Ian's freakishly long legs.  


"Fuck you, Gallagher," he yells, grabbing Ian by his jacket. Ian's eyes look down at him, soft and questioning, and Mickey hates the part of himself that can't help but answer. "Just...fuck you," he breathes, before pulling Ian in and kissing him.  


Ian lets out a surprised gasp that Mickey quickly cuts off by pushing his tongue into his mouth. He tightens his hold on Ian’s jacket and pulls until their bodies press together. Ian's hands press flat against Mickey's lower back, not allowing any space between them as he responds, biting Mickey's lower lip before sealing their mouths together again with a moan.  


They stumble towards the front stairs. Mickey presses Ian into the railing and sighs as Ian grabs his ass in both hands, hauling them even closer together. Mickey pours everything into this kiss, everything he's ever felt for Ian but could never say. It’s rushing through his veins, seeping from his bones and pushing through his skin, and Ian can feel it all. What the last years have meant and what they'll always mean. How much Mickey will miss him. How he wishes things could be different.  


Mickey doesn't know when he became okay with making out in the middle of Ian’s front yard, in full view of anyone who looks out their window, but he can't bring himself to care. All he knows is that he can't stop, because when he does Ian will leave. Instead, he tightens his hold on Ian's jacket and presses their lips together harder.  


A part of Mickey hates Ian for making him feel this way, hates that he's almost shaking when they finally pull apart. Yet somehow their foreheads end up pressed together, and Mickey can do nothing but keep his eyes closed and try to calm his heartbeat as they clutch each other's arms, clothing, whatever they can reach.  


"Come with me," Ian whispers, pulling on the collar of Mickey's shirt until the fabric is stretched taut. It's an order, as if he can't let Mickey make up his own mind or he might say no.  


Mickey opens his eyes and laughs dismissively, brushing off the offer and trying to turn his head away, but Ian doesn't let him. He grabs Mickey's jaw and kisses him quick, hard, while tightening the grip of his other hand on Mickey's waist.  


"Come with me," he repeats when he breaks away, ducking his head so Mickey has to meet his eyes and see how serious he is.  


Mickey holds his gaze, and his fingers curl around Ian's biceps. His breath catches in his throat as he opens his mouth to speak, and for one glorious moment he feels like he can say yes, like this is something he can have. A world outside of Chicago, outside of the cage that the name Milkovich has trapped him in.  


He closes his eyes, letting out a shuddering breath, but when he tries to talk the words get caught in his throat. He looks up and sees his knuckles against Ian's clean, pale skin; black ink that ties him to this fucking life just as permanently as the letters are set in his skin. And who is he to think things could ever be otherwise?  


"I can't."  


"Why not?" Ian pleads, refusing to give up. "There's nothing here for you, Mick, just this fucked up city. You can get out. We can get out. Just...Come with me."  


Ian can see the thoughts flashing through Mickey's eyes. He sees a brief glimpse of something beautiful, but Mickey's eyes slowly dim as years of fear and self-hatred win out.  


"Nah man," Mickey mutters, eyes flicking all over Ian's face. "You're better off without me."  


Ian tries to speak, but Mickey cuts him off. "I belong in the South Side, Gallagher," he says steadily. "What am I anywhere else?"  


Ian opens his mouth to reply, a look of determination still on his face, but Mickey kisses him before he can argue anymore. It's gentler than they're used to, lips just pressed softly together. Mickey lingers before he pulls away, trailing his tongue along Ian's bottom lip as if needing one last taste.  


Mickey draws back, hands going into his pockets, cocky posture making him stand up straighter. He's a fucking Milkovich after all.  


"I'll see you, Gallagher.” His voice is rough again, and they watch each other for a few seconds, both knowing it's a lie.  


Mickey's already walking away when Ian nods.  


***

Mickey finds a folded ticket crammed under his windowsill a few days later, and he knows exactly where it’s from. Ian always was a sneaky bastard. 

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________________  


He doesn't know why he didn't throw it away, why he kept it hidden under his couch cushions for several days, pulling it out every night to read with his door shut and locked. He keeps it in his inner jacket pocket now, close to his skin.  


Mickey pulls the piece of paper out again and reads it for what feels like the hundredth time. It's a simple voucher, plain type with his name printed near the top underneath a Greyhound bus logo.  


The bus ride is over twenty-four hours long, and Mickey grimaces at the thought. He can imagine the smelly, chatty, fat-ass he just knows would sit next to him, and he wonders again why he hasn't ripped the thing up. It sounds like hell, and what would make New York any better than Chicago? He'd find another shitty job and another shitty apartment while scraping by in another shitty town.  


But he would have Ian. The one good thing in his whole shitty life.  


Mickey puts the ticket back in his pocket and holds it there, pressing it against his chest as he continues to stare at his wall. Before he knows what he's doing he's climbing out of bed and yanking his bag out from under the mattress.  


He doesn't bother pulling clothes out of his dresser. He can't remember the last time he actually used it for anything other than a place to throw his jacket and empty the shit from his pockets. He grabs the piles of dirty jeans and tank tops spread across his floor, throwing them on the bed and hastily cramming everything haphazardly into the duffel.  


Focusing on trying to shove a pair of jeans into the back corner of the bag, Mickey jumps when Mandy's voice suddenly cuts into the silence behind him.  


"What are you doing?"  


"Go back to bed, Mandy," he snaps, keeping his back to her.  


"Are you packing?" she asks curiously.  


Mickey turns quickly, "I said fuck off!"  


He hears her footsteps retreat towards her room and lets out a breath, surprised that he got rid of her so quickly. The relief is short-lived, however, as she comes back less than a minute later.  


"You're going after him, aren't you?" she asks, standing in the doorway as if blocking his escape.  


Mickey's only half listening to her, intent on getting his shit together as quickly as possible, and he lets out an exasperated sigh, "What the fuck are you talking about?"  


"Ian."  


Mickey freezes, his entire body tense, and one hand still buried up to the elbow in his bag. "Are you on something?" he tries to sound nonchalant, but his voice is as rigid as his shoulders, each word catching slightly on the one before it.  


Mandy doesn't answer, but a flying shirt suddenly hits him in the back of the head.  


Mickey spins around angrily while ripping the shirt off his face. "What the fuck, Mandy!" he yells in a whisper, not so carried away as to forget that his drunk brothers are in the next room.  


"I found that wedged under Ian's mattress a few weeks ago," she says. Mickey looks at the cloth in his hands and recognizes one of his old tee-shirts.  


Mickey's eyes flash to Mandy's, wide and panicked, before he quickly turns back around to face the bed. His hands are clutching the worn fabric, tracing the faded tree pattern, and he doesn't bother trying to come up with an excuse. He doesn't think he could get the words out even if he could think of any, but he knows he can't look at her. Can't bear to see the expression on her face.  


"I didn't know what to do," Mandy continues resolutely when she realizes Mickey's not going to say anything, "so it's been sitting in my room ever since."  


Mickey stays silent as he stares at the shirt in his hand. He remembers the afternoon all the Gallagher siblings were out, and Ian convinced him to come over. They spent hours up in Ian's room fucking and messing around, but when Mickey needed to get home to meet up with his brothers, he couldn't find his shirt. Ian was a total prick about it, going on about Mickey trying not to sunburn his delicate skin while he walked home half naked. He then descended into what can only be described as the giggles when Mickey pounced on him, pinning him to the bed and glaring before grabbing his jacket off the desk and storming out in a huff. He never got his shirt back.  


Mickey is about to drop the shirt on his bed when he notices that it smells slightly of Ian, like Gallagher had actually worn it several times. He eyes the window next to his bed, wondering if he can jump out of it before Mandy grabs him.  


He almost tries it, because that is what he does; Mickey runs. Fuck, he sprints as fast as his legs can carry him, and he's now petrified, realizing for the first time that there is nowhere left to go.  


He stands completely still, hoping that if he doesn't move Mandy might get bored and just go away. If he doesn't acknowledge the situation, then maybe it's not actually happening. That has been his personal mantra for the past three years with Ian, and Mickey almost laughs when he thinks about it, because that worked out so fucking well.  


Mandy finally loses patience with him, and he can tell she's trying not to shout.  


"Seriously, Mickey? You're just gonna stand there?"  


He imagines he can hear her stomp her foot when he still doesn't move.  


"You might as well give it up," she says, crossing her arms and suddenly sounding like a baiting, twelve-year-old girl, "he told me all about it."  


That gets Mickey's attention, and he whips around, eyes wide and mouth open, gaping at her in shock and looking so struck that Mandy takes a literal step back.  


"Oh for fuck's sake, Mickey!" she bursts out once she realizes why her brother looks so betrayed. "He didn't tell me anything about you. You should know Ian better than that seeing as you've apparently been fucking him for who knows how long," she says, way too smug for her own good.

Mickey relaxes slightly but looks back down to Mandy's feet.  


"He just told me there was someone," she clarifies. "He never gave me many details, but I could tell he really liked him." She tries to catch Mickey's eye. "He said he almost wished the guy would ask him to stay, but he knew it would never happen." Mandy suddenly lets out a humorless chuckle. "I should have known then that he was talking about you." She smiles when Mickey looks up and glares. “You always were a pussy when it comes to emotional shit.”  


"He would have stayed you know," she goes on, her voice suddenly soft, and Mickey recognizes the tone she used the other day when trying to pet a stray cat in the front yard.  


Mickey scoffs and can't help but answer, pushing the words past his dry lips. "No he fucking wouldn't have. You should know him better than that," he sneers, throwing her own words back in her face.  


"Yeah, I guess you're right," she laughs. "Driven fucker isn't he?"  


Mickey thinks of Ian studying math theorems, of his makeshift boot camp, and his unending enthusiasm for all things military, and Mickey can feel a smile creeping onto his face that he's sure is entirely too fond. He looks down quickly but knows he's not successful at hiding his expression when he hears Mandy's next words.  


"You must really love him."  


“Fuck off,” Mickey spits while turning around again, his movements jerky. He quickly stuffs the shirt into his pack, as if he just realized that he was still holding it. He yanks the zipper closed, squeezing in the sides of bag and snagging pieces of material as he forces the metal teeth together. He takes a small step back as if admiring his work. It seems like his whole life has been crammed into that bag, and it looks like it’s about to explode. He doesn't hear Mandy move, and he jumps a little when she hugs him.  


"I love you, Mickey," she whispers. "You know that right?" Her arms tighten, trying to squeeze the knowledge into him, make it sink in, and force him to accept it as an unconditional truth.  


"I'll miss you," she continues, and Mickey doesn’t know how to respond. He turns around and looks at her, seeing the truth of it in her face. She steps away, and the moment is broken, both of them starting to retreat behind walls that they rarely drop, even for each other.  


"I'll tell dad you went upstate for a delivery or something for a few days" she says, all business again. "Plenty of time to get to New York."  


Their eyes hold for several moments before she quietly turns towards the door. She's about to leave when Mickey finally manages to open his mouth.  


"Mandy..." he chokes out. She turns back and smiles slightly, and Mickey knows that she understands. Mickey just nods before turning back to his bed, still struggling with his two worlds colliding.  


"Oh, and Mickey?"  


He looks at her over his shoulder, eyebrows raised.  


"You better not screw this up, fuckface," Mandy says forcefully, her voice harsh and low.  


Mickey just smirks and throws a balled-up sock at her, briefly seeing her answering grin before she shuts the door behind her.  


He collapses on his bed, suddenly exhausted, and glances around his room before his eyes are drawn back to the wall above his bed. He traces the crack with his fingertips and feels the sharp edge. He presses his whole hand firmly against the plaster, and it leaves a mark when he pulls his hand away. It's hard, durable. Maybe being cracked isn’t so bad after all, Mickey thinks, as he grabs his bag and shuts the door behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> After combing the internet for Ian/Mickey fics, I've finally contributed something to the pot. Please let me know what you think!


End file.
